


Burned

by emmiemac



Series: Twentieth Century SanSan [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drinking, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Mention of abuse and date-rape, Profanity, homophobic slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmiemac/pseuds/emmiemac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on bighound-littlebird SanSan Prompt #9:<br/>Sandor and Sansa discover they enjoy watching ‘Antiques Roadshow’. Sandor soon creates a drinking game for when they watch it.</p><p>Sorry there is no drinking game but Sandor does get drunk and soon finds himself in a compromising position.</p><p>DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on characters from George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burned

_Just keep her busy, dog,_ Joffrey had ordered. _Let me have some fun for a change away from that prissy, little tight-ass._

Sandor had left the main room of the Baratheon’s summer home on Kings Landing Sound, actually relieved to be away from his obnoxious charge. He had once been indifferent, even occasionally amused by his pranks and pursuits, thinking him just a lad; but his treatment of his young fiancée, the heiress Sansa Stark, had left his bodyguard, known to all as ‘the Hound’, more than cold. Sandor had come to the inescapable conclusion that Joffrey Baratheon, heir apparent to his father’s sprawling corporate empire, was an ugly little shit who enjoyed being cruel.

He has seen the bruises on the girl’s pale skin, the reddened eyes that had been crying, the mortified shame she felt at being publicly groped by her drunken betrothed. For reasons he did not care to ponder, he had hated it and his job of standing by and simply watching, unable to help the girl or even break his code of loyalty to his employers by telling her to run back to her own family, the Starks had considerable riches, and never come back to this place where she was little more than a caged songbird: her once happy and sweet naivete crushed by Joffrey’s cruel treatment and replaced by a mask of manners and propriety.

Not that Sansa Stark wasn’t every inch a lady, and Sandor Clegane had observed every inch of her, but her wings had been decidedly clipped by Joff and his controlling mother, Cersei, who wanted her son to have the social enrichment of a Stark bride, especially such a beautiful and handsomely dowered one. Another thing Sandor had learned and never spoken of is how the Baratheon riches were spent almost before they were earned. That gold-digger Cersei was eyeing a takeover of Stark Industries, particularly since the girl’s older brother had come into the chairmanship following the death of their father. They had all been vacationing in the Summer Islands when the call came, and Cersei had not let the girl use their private jet to return to her family. With no other way off the islands, the girl had been alone in her grief while Joff had partied and bedded bikini-clad locals and berated her for being in mourning. That was the first time he had struck her, Sandor remembered; he never would have had the balls had her father still been alive. After that, Cersei would not let the girl out of their sight; and it frequently fell to Sandor to guard her as often as Joffrey.

Now Sandor wandered the cavernous open spaces of the family beach house with its sunken rooms, modern furniture and abstract art. Cersei had expensively wretched tastes, to his mind. All those splatter paintings looked like gore to him: he’d seen enough of it as Special Forces in the military after leaving home as a teen. After a brief stint in reform, he’d signed up and the military had appreciated and rewarded his particular gift for killing. Sandor Clegane didn’t lie to himself about what he was: a hired killer for his country, or hired muscle to the wealthy. The scars helped in that respect and who would have thought that? Sure, he was ugly, even vicious looking: good for him, it made people quake in their shoes and piss their pants when they saw him coming. He had considered that an advantage…until the girl couldn’t look at him. Some of Joff’s floozier girls had smirked or giggled when Joff called him his attack dog, a few braver ones had tried to fuck him just to have tales to tell, he surmised. They figured any man his size had a dick worth writing home about. He did, thanks-very-much, but could not risk being talked about in his position. So he hired his own floozies: it was cheaper in the long run and a lot less troublesome.

After passing some bedrooms where the resounding shouts, grunts and gasps meant the rich, young things were all busy fucking each other, Sandor spotted the dim glow of a tv set coming from under a door. It was the girl’s room: far from Joffrey’s and with a lock on the door. Her ex-governess had negotiated that much before a freak accident separated her from her head. Good thing the girl had been in the back seat of the convertible but then she had to suffer the bitch’s bloody head landing right in the lap of her silky summer dress. Luckily for Sandor she’d fainted and he’s only had to carry her unconscious to this very room. Unluckily for him the feeling of her young, well-formed body against his and the closeness of her beautiful face with its pale, delicate skin and fiery auburn hair had haunted his dreams. The next day she has actually thanked him: sought him out to tell him she was grateful for his kind treatment of her. He had been abrupt and dismissive but then he had dreamed only of protecting her from the cruelty that threatened to ruin her. It gave him a headache and a hard-on, and so he avoided her when he could, and snapped at her when he couldn’t: it kept her at a distance, a polite distance in her case, and he never had to look too closely at those clear, deep blue eyes with their pleading, helpless appeal that, for all their wordless yearning, did not truly expect any sympathy. Not anymore.

 _Bugger,_ he thought, as he knocked at the door, _I’d rather a drink than her company right now._

“Come in,” she said. _Stupid little bird, I could be anyone._ He opened the door.

“You should keep this locked,” he admonished her harshly in his raspy voice, “and at least ask who it is. You know what these men are like. You’re just a conquest to them; and they don’t much care if you’re willing after a few drinks either.”

“Good evening. Mr. Clegane,” she replied courteously despite his rude behaviour. “Has- has Joffrey sent for me?” He could hear the reluctance in her voice but also the guilt. Joffrey had hated it when she left parties to stroll along the beach or stare at sunsets from the dock. _Stupid_ , he called her, _my mother’s betrothed me to a dumb, dull virgin._ But he liked it better when she was not around: he didn’t have to be reminded that his manners were for shit and that he had fuck-all worth saying whereas the girl had a cultured upbringing and extensive education that put him, and most of the others in the Baratheon circle, to shame…expect maybe that ponce Renly.

“No, girl, he doesn’t want you,” he sneered, “just wants you kept safe…like a little bird in a cage. Do you know why they took canaries down into the bowels of coal mines, girl?” Sandor grinned his twisted smile: he knew it made him look menacing.

The girl looked away and nodded slightly. “When the canary died, the miners knew it was no longer safe for them to stay.”

He should have known she would know. Stark Industries started with mining and they had the best safety record of any company. _We are nothing without our employees,_ old man Stark had said, _and so we protect them: the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._ It became one of the most-quoted lines in contemporary business: more often disparagingly but unlike many other companies, Stark Industries had not been hit with a single indictment or even an investigation. Sandor suspected that would change once Cersei’s father Tywin Lannister agreed to take over the Department of Commerce under President Aerys Targaryen.

Frustrated  that he had not rattled her, he instead glanced at the tv screen and furrowed his brow in recognition.

“ _Antiques Road Show_?” He was surprised but again knew that he shouldn’t have been.

“I did a semester of art history before…” she trailed off. Cersei had not let her return to college either. “My mother loved antiques, and my father encouraged her collecting. Stark Industries donated many fine pieces to the History Museum in the Capitol: some things are too important and too lovely to be kept in private collections, don’t you think?”

She may as well have been talking about herself but he gave a gruff, non-committal answer: “Might be.”

“Father always said that I was born too late,” she continued sadly, “that I should have been a Victorian lady. But I sometimes think I belong in a medieval setting-“

“Renaissance,” he corrected without thinking and felt he needed to elaborate when she looked at him curiously. “They liked the red hair…and pale skin,” waved a dismissive hand in her direction. If he were to liken her to a Botticelli, she would certainly laugh at him; even if she were too courteous to do it to his ugly face.

“Perhaps you are right,” she said after a moment. “But there is something so quiet and charming about a medieval castle with everything contained within its walls, or outside in a small village: so pastoral and simple.”

“If you like brigands, wars and plague and witch-burnings. Don’t be so romantic about history, or even real life, girl: it’s only peaceful and charming for the wealthy few; the rest toil in the dirt and suffer and die while the very top sit on thrones and have lands and castles. They can keep their riches: sounds like a stifling lot to me, like living in a prison,” he rasped.

The girl looked down demurely. _Fuck: did it again._ He looked around for something else to talk about. The curtains of her room fluttered in the breeze off the sound and you could just barely hear the sound of waves underneath the music and shrieking of girls as they were tossed into the swimming pool. There was a sound of glass breaking too, and Sandor once again wished for a drink. _Bloody hell, as long as I’m stuck here…_

“Not got anything to drink then, girl?”

“Yes, I have; forgive me for not offering,” she apologized. He thought that strange since he usually never drank on duty but his retort died on his lips when she slip open a closet that held numerous liquor bottles. He held up a palm questioningly. The girl ducked her head again.

“No one questions when I go to my room with a bottle in hand,” she explained.

True enough: Robert Baratheon had drunk himself to death; now Cersei seemed to be following in his path though she had hated it well enough when he was alive and fucking her when he was insensate. Probably the only way he could stand her company, Sandor smirked, but then she was stuck with the fat fuck falling asleep on her. Must’ve taken the strength of an aurochs to get him off her.

“Don’t you ever drink any of it?” he asked suddenly as he peered into the closet at all the bottles. “Is there scotch?”

She reached for a bottle in the back. “It must be very good: it was the only time anyone passed comment. You remember uncle Tyrion’s bodyguard Mr. Bronn? He said it was good to see I had decent taste in something,” she confided.

He recognized one of Robert’s reserve bottles, direct from a small, exclusive distillery in Scotland: aged in barrels and smooth with a fierce warmth going down that was like being kissed by fire. Sandor should know. He looked at her now as she offered him the bottle: rich auburn hair in loose waves and those eyes… He felt a jolt of recognition for he’d seen eyes like that before, helpless and trapped: first in his sister’s face and then in his own reflection in the mirror after his father had died, and his elder brother Gregor had made their young lives a torment of abuse. He fumbled to uncap the scotch while the girl brought him a glass from her bathroom, and poured and downed two shots in rapid succession.

“Mind if I watch?” he gestured towards the screen. The show seemed to have started again.

“Please, have a seat Mr. Clegane,” she indicated the cushion next to her on the loveseat at the end of her bed. The room was all white eyelet with touches of blue and the window sills held shells that she had collected from various beaches. He recognized the large conch she had found in the Summer Islands the day before the call came and the last time he could remember her being remotely carefree and happy, despite Joffrey’s obvious displays of sullen indifference to her. Shee poured him another scotch before he could, handing him back the glass with the same daintiness as a spinster serving tea.

“It’s a marathon for the holiday weekend,” she commented about the television series just as another smash of glass could be heard from one of the many decks outside.

“So’s that,” he rasped insolently. The younger guests had been carrying on for days. The girl had needed to be particularly wary as Joffrey had invited players from the Kings Landing Kingsguard rugby club who were notorious drinkers and even suspected date-rapists though no young woman had pressed charges despite some having been photographed as they were passed around. One had committed suicide though but had been labelled ‘unstable’ instead of ‘brutally victimized’. Joff thought it was funny, and lately had been asking others if they thought Sansa was ‘unstable’.

“They’re in Oldtown,” she spoke knowledgeably, “people have marvelous pieces from the days of the maesters such as ancient texts and preserved jars of, well, goodness knows what sometimes. One elderly man, he seemed quite mad to be honest, claimed to have bottles of a substance called wildfire but they were empty. Another scholar had a white raven, stuffed and mounted, that was centuries old: they were used to announce the end of summers so that castellans knew to begin setting aside stores for winter.”

Sandor sniffed. “Another caged bird. Bugger that. In those days it was strong arms and sharp steel that ruled the world, not learning. Don’t let anyone tell you different. You can act like a pretty caged bird,” he taunted, “but you really want someone to rescue you: well it won’t be any maester or monk who read and wrote manuscripts, or painters of pretty pictures.” He pointed back to the screen before downing his fourth scotch. “There you go: armour and weapons are what you need,” he touted as the historian excitedly exclaimed over the find of a full, third-century armour and greatsword: castle-forged with a faded sigil.

_Such a rare find to see an entire suit of armour in this condition and of such excellent craftsmanship: this is no doubt the work of a master armourer. Certainly the armour of a lord or another high-born noble, though some men in service could win favour and be outfitted by their masters, or they could win at tournaments and ransom back their opponents’ armour and weapons, thereby enriching themselves._

Sandor laughed harshly. “There you go, little bird: in medieval times a knight in his shining armour would have rescued you. How’s that for romantic?”

“Not very, I’m afraid,” she replied. “I read about the knights of the Crusades when I studied Chaucer. Many were no better than mercenaries, or younger sons who sought riches or position in the Holy Land that they could not have at home. Few wars are fought for gods, not truly: most are for gold, or power, perhaps some for revenge. It is the innocent who suffer most, as you have said.” She looked pointedly at him and he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

He was drunk, he realized now: drunk enough to openly stare at her. Her pale summer dress was a blue so pale and sharp it could only be described as icy and the soft fabric clung to her full young breasts and tapered down to a narrow waist before giving way to a full skirt over a mass of matching gauzy underskirts, like a ballet dancer wore. He thought that she looked like a ballerina in that Christmas ballet he had always had to take Joffrey to so he could see his sister Myrcella dance. That damn story had a tin soldier too; no, a nutcracker he remembered now. But that was all just a dream as well: a lie that made young girls like his sister and the little bird wish for heroes to rescue them from evil.

“Bet you it’s worth more than a million,” he blurted suddenly.

“The armour?” she asked. “Perhaps with the sword as well, and if they can confirm its provenance: the history of each piece is very important-“

“Again: bugger that. You like pretty things, but it’s all about money, little bird: that’s today’s armour, not your courtesies and your museum pieces and your fat, old scholars dealing in even older junk.” Sandor could not account for his anger because he in fact liked the Antiques Road Show and found it interesting: he’d had little formal education but had seen a fair bit of the world in his travels for the military and had wished for more knowledge, but having to be on his own at a young age had made that impossible. _We don’t all get trust funds and governesses, little bird,_ he thought bitterly. Maybe that’s why he was pissed off at her, that and her unfailingly polite helplessness. _If you can’t defend yourself…_

He wasn’t being fair: the girl was polite to him and even the staff. But he didn’t want her courtesy: he wanted to cut through the crap and see the part of her that hurt so badly, the part he understood and could sympathize with. Maybe she could look at him then and see something besides the scars and fierce demeanor.

She had turned back to the screen. “It’s an illusion really. None of this is of any value except what someone will pay for it. If no one wants it, it becomes worthless. Even the slightest dent or chip can decrease value-“

“Are you saying anything older or scarred is worthless, little bird?” he questioned harshly.

She turned back to him with the barest smile. "Only if the are purely ornamental, for decorative purposes," she murmured self-deprecatingly. Clearly she knew her worth to the Baratheons. "But not something useful, or that is meant to be strong. What is it Tennyson wrote? 

_How dull it is to pause, to make and end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!_

" _Ulysses_ was my father's favourite poem," she smiled sadly again as she poured him another scotch.

I _could keep you safe_ , he thought, but that was not what she wanted, he realized now. She just wanted to be away for these cruel people and to be back with her own family and be out in the world where she could be of use, where she could shine.

“Renaissance,” he slurred now, trying to focus on that beautiful face with its wide blue eyes and full lips. “A Botticelli’s wha’you are…lit’l bird.” He dropped his glass now on the sisal carpet that lay over the dark hardwood floor of her room. Stupidly, he thought of rushes on castles floors, of winds blowing through tower windows, of ladies fair in tight bodices.

She was leaning toward him, exposing just the barest hint of the tops of her breasts, white and smooth as milk, with the same cool and soft-looking skin running up her throat and neck. Unthinking, he reached his hand, darkly tanned and rough against her perfection, and trace his finger across her throat and watched her pulse beat faster. She was afraid now, he could tell: he knew fear; he’d seen it a lot.

“We could g’way,” he stifled the feeling that the scotch was coming back up again. “Jus’ say, an’ I’ll kill’em all jus’ to keep you safe…”

“Shh,” she hushed him, “you seem ill, Mr. Clegane.” She reached to him now and placed a cool, soft hand on his scarred cheek, a comforting caress he somehow knew that he did not deserve. He felt like weeping but sucked in his breath instead. “Come lie down, you’ll feel better soon…and I’ll be safe with you here.”

He remembered agreeing, or nodding, or some foolishness; and then nothing until he woke feeling like he’d been hit by a truck and left for dead with his face on fire, feeling like he could barely breathe. He opened his eyes a slit and saw that he was in a strange room: all white with blue and sunlight streaming in and the sound of waves on the beach.

_Fuck me._

The weight on was chest was the girl, sprawled across him with her beautiful fiery hair loose and her thin delicate arm reaching across his torso, as though protecting him. Alarmed, he sat up and felt the wallop of a 2x4 to his skull.

“Buggering hell,” he groaned.

The girl sat up, she had been awake the whole time. She drew back the blanket that covered them; they hadn’t really needed it despite the open window. They were both dressed, but the straps had slipped from her shoulders and she righted them now blushing deeply.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

“What- the fuck happened, girl?” he rasped with a horribly dry mouth.

“Nothing…with us; but a great deal, I’m afraid with others.” She still couldn’t look at him even though she had slept next to him. Sandor was more muddled now than hungover, and he was very hungover.

“What others? What are you-“

“You were right, Mr. Clegane. Other men did come…looking for me. When they saw me with you, well, they left of course. But I don’t think they will have kept it secret. We will both have much to answer for this morning, I’m afraid.”

She was looking at him now, direct and more assured than he could remember in some time. The fear was still there but she was in some control now. Her words from the night before came back to him.

_It’s an illusion really. None of this is of any value except what someone will pay for it. If no one wants it, it becomes worthless._

He eyed her shrewdly. With his help, or at least his body in her bed, she had devalued herself in the eyes of the Baratheons, especially Joffrey and Cersei. They couldn’t have him marry a girl known to have bedded his dog of a bodyguard: they would be laughingstocks. She had made herself worthless to them.

He laughed despite himself. Then he groaned from the pain. They were called before Cersei, in her modern study: all gold with red accents that made his eyes burn and those hideous splatter paintings that now made him think of the puke he’s like to spew at her feet. The girl stood next to him with her eyes cast down demurely, having to endure Cersei of all women, call her a slut and a whore and unworthy of her son. The little bird had remained polite as ever.

“Yes, Mrs. Baratheon, you are right: I certainly don’t deserve your son,” she had spoken softly but firmly.

Sandor had been glad his twisted scarred moth had hid his smirk. They were given 20 minutes to clear out their rooms and leave with her late husband’s brother Renly and his friend, Loras Tyrell: the newest member of the Kingsguard team. Sandor took one look at them together and knew the boy was no drunken shithead date-rapist; he was a true athlete and what’s more he would set off any woman’s gay-dar at a glance. Things would certainly change on King’s Landing Sound; but neither he nor the little bird would be around to see it.

“Where to kids?” Renly had asked casually, putting on his sunglasses. “It’s going to be a beautiful day!”

Sansa Stark glanced at Sandor with a relieved smile. “Yes, it will be. Please take me home.”

“Home?” he laughed. “Isn’t your family in the North?”

“Take us to my place, Renly; I’ll get her home from there,” Sandor rasped.

“You are too kind, Mr. Clegane. I’m sure my brother will send for me,” she offered politely.

“Bugger that. Bugger him. Bugger you. I swore to keep you safe, little bird: at least let me do something right for you…of my own accord.”

She bit her lip, half-ashamed, half-triumphant. She’d saved herself but used him to do it. Fuck it, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been burned.

“Drive,” he ordered Loras.

 

**AP Wire Service Bulletin: Headline**

**STARK HEIRESS WEDS EX-MILITARY HEAD OF SECURITY FOR STARK INDUSTRIES**

Winterfell Manor hosted the wedding reception of Sansa Stark, daughter of the late E. Stark and his widow Catelyn Stark, formerly Tully, to former Special Forces Sgt. Sandor Clegane, current Head of Security and former bodyguard of her brother and company CEO Robb Stark. The wedding and reception had a pastoral theme, with the bride dressed in a Renaissance-style gown and carrying a bouquet of jonquils, her distinctive auburn hair in loose tendrils and curls down her back. “I’m just an old-fashioned girl, very old-fashioned,” the bride had joked modestly to appreciative laughter.

The rakishly scarred groom toasted his bride saying he had once hoped to be her “knight in shining armor” but had just as quickly learned that she could take care of herself in her own way, and so would settle with being her faithful lifelong companion, “like a loyal hound” at her side.

The bride had formerly been engaged to Baratheon scion, the late Joffrey Baratheon, though the betrothal was ended by ‘mutual agreement’ the families then said. Rumours began to circulate afterward that Baratheon had been abusive, rumours dismissed by his family and that of his next fiancée, the society beauty Margaery Tyrell. When Baratheon famously choked to death at their own wedding reception, his mother Cersei Baratheon sought to have the marriage annulled, preventing her son’s widow from inheriting a controlling share in the company. The case is still before the courts.

The couple plan a short honeymoon at an undisclosed inn in the North before Mrs. Clegane returns to complete her Masters degree in Art History. Her thesis topic is rumoured to be on the history of the antique armour now-famously brought to light on the television series _Antiques Road Show_ and since acquired by the Stark family for their private collection though talks are thought to be underway for donation to the National Gallery.

When asked for comment on the armour, then-Miss Stark had said wistfully. “Of course it is an historically important piece but it can be very hard to part with something you love so much. The armour has a very special place in my heart,” she smiled almost secretly. When asked, she politely refused to comment further.


End file.
